


touch my world with your fingertips

by thespideyboy



Series: Spideypool One-offs [6]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Identity Reveal, M/M, Nighttime Fluff, a little bit, more spideypool fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 00:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespideyboy/pseuds/thespideyboy
Summary: He’s cut off with a kick to the shoulder, one that’s playful in nature and rather painful in practice. Peter stands over him, cocks his hip, crosses his arms- he isn’t upset, Deadpool knows that much, but it’s all part of the act, part of the avoidant flirting that’s been perpetuated by both of them for too long, now.





	touch my world with your fingertips

Peter lets himself fall, sighs as his body retreats against the upward torrent of wind.

He’s a hundred or so feet off the ground but there’s not an ounce of fear present between heartbeats- this is what he needs, he thinks, the incomprehensible burst of liberation that comes with an uninhibited freefall, the whip of wind against his limbs as he cuts through the sky.

Life is difficult and hectic, fruitless some days and overwhelming others. Falling like this, though, is as simple as it gets. This is letting go in every way tangible, giving in to the current of gravity as he plummets to the ground without a single pause of regret.

This is living - this is Peter Parker, at his very best.

His hand shoots out at the last moment, the motion fluid and practiced, and then his trajectory shifts. The sun kisses his face again as he soars, wrist flicking, another web latching to another building. It’s quiet and chilly, yet Peter feels little more than the warmth bubbling in his lungs, fizzling in his veins. Projects and midterms and work have gotten in the way of this, and even though it’s been a week since he’s been out like this, his reflexes don’t falter with his return to form.

He swings until he reaches the outskirts of the city, where the buildings don’t stretch quite as high and his feet sometimes graze the concrete sidewalks when he dips just a little too low. The streets are emptier here than they are back in the heart of the jungle, and while some days Peter thinks that the city’s outlining blocks are lonely, today he appreciates the quiet, basks in the noiseless void it projects.

There are kids some blocks down, their laughs echoing weakly through the corridors of short complexes and retail fronts, and Peter takes the interruption as his cue to leave- he’s in the suit, and he’s usually all for entertaining the youth, but right now he’s enjoying the time to himself. Scaling one of the nearby apartment buildings is easy enough, and then he’s lying on his back on the roof, pulling the mask off to let the chilly gust tide over his cheeks.

He stays here until the sun crawls across the sky and tucks itself behind the horizon, absently listening to the pedestrian voices that occasionally waft from the streets below. Tonight is the first night in as long as he can remember that he has no where else to be, no one else to attend to, but after some hours he finds that his fingers are itching with restlessness. For a minute or two, he sits up and considers calling it quits and heading back to his apartment, perhaps giving his body a full night’s rest, for once.

And then, as though on cue, there’s a crimson figure streaking across his peripherals, far off in the distance. His lips upturn and his senses stir, mildly aroused yet not particularly alarmed.

Footsteps break the peace of the night as he pulls his mask back over his face and dives from the building, gone from the rooftop in such a quick succession of seconds it’s as though he was never there in the first place.

Trailing Deadpool isn’t difficult for Peter, who has nearly two years of practice under his belt. The red-clad man is jumping rooftop to rooftop, climbing fire escapes when the next building is too high, leaving a path of mild property destruction and major noise in his wake. Peter’s on him in a second, physically intercepting one of his jumps with a swing of his own, and then they’re tumbling down together.

Deadpool seems only moderately confused, reaching for either a knife or a sword or a gun behind his back before craning his neck back to see who the hell tackled him eight stories up. Peter, who’s entirely tangled with the larger man, can feel as the he physically relaxes.

“Spidey!” He puffs gleefully, nuzzling against the smaller chest. Peter’s somewhat aware that they’re never this close, never this touchy, but he’s too happy tonight to mind the contact, especially coming from Deadpool. “Where’d you come from? You’re not hoppin’ universes too, are ya?” The black and red mask is still tight over his face, but the raised eyebrow is implied in his tone.

Peter shakes his head, gathering his woven limbs and rolling away from Deadpool’s body. “Nah, saw you fooling around, figured I’d drop by and say hey.” His voice is loose, a brand of carefree that’s almost foreign to his ears after so many years of being Spider-man. “So, uh- hey.”

Deadpool’s mask pulls into a smile, one that Peter can only imagine is wide and toothy beneath the obscuring fabric. “Baby boy, you’re just the sweetest peach hung on the branch, you know that? And don’t get me _started_ on you and peaches, sweetcheeks, or anything that’s _hung,_ ‘cos your spandex leaves _nothing_ to the imagination and-”

He’s cut off with a kick to the shoulder, one that’s playful in nature and rather painful in practice. Peter stands over him, cocks his hip, crosses his arms- he isn’t upset, Deadpool knows that much, but it’s all part of the act, part of the avoidant flirting that’s been perpetuated by both of them for too long, now.

“You’re horrible.” Peter states, tightening his arms. No hostility or legitimate annoyance lingers in his demeanor- he’s wide open right now, despite the way he’s looking down at the other man. Deadpool props himself up on his elbows, the city’s light pollution casting a pinkish hue over his figure. “Remind me again why I bother with you?”

“Because you _love_ me, Spidey-baby, you just wanna get all up in Daddypool’s ugly mug and even uglier-”

“No, that doesn’t seem right-”

“Because I give _phenomenal, earth-shattering, out-of-this-mother-fucking-universe_ blow-”

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence.”

“But _Spidey-_ ”

“No buts!”

“Boobs, then?”

“-Sorry, what?”

And that’s that- Peter’s lost the flow, as he sometimes does going off with Deadpool like this, but his heart is fluttering and his fingertips are tingling and honestly- if he had a choice, he’d take this no other way.

Right here, with his consciousness orbiting around Deadpool’s like he’s the fucking sun, he feels alive again- like falling, plummeting towards the ground, except he has nothing to change his trajectory, nothing to keep him from the seemingly inevitable impact.

They’re together more often than they’re not, but they’re not _together,_ not in any way that counts. It’s been two years of _this_ , of gut-sweeping desire hidden by so-called duties and excuses, of stolen glances behind spandex masks, of wondering what would happen if Peter only lifted his own, revealed his name, crossed the last few barriers that bar them from each other. He’s only ever seen Deadpool’s mouth, the sharp angles of his jawline, and he’s gotten nothing in terms of a name. Rationally, Peter knows that Deadpool’s not seen him, either, and that he’s not put his own identity forwards, hasn’t made that step on his own, but just as much as he longs to eliminate the last few obstacles between them, he’s terrified of what it would mean, what it might lead to. What it might not.

There’s a car in the distance, roaring as it rushes through the streets at a speed that’s probably not legal, but neither man is inclined to move. They watch each other, a moment of tense silence passing between them as their gazes meet beneath their respective masks, and then the world reassumes its motion.

“So, whatcha doin’ out on your own, then, mister?” Deadpool questions, tilts his head. “Thought we agreed on patrollin’ together? Swear I didn’t kill no one, not since I promised I wouldn’t, and I promise that I promised, I think- I mean, yellow seems to remember that I did and white’s sayin’ I’m a wacko, but,” He trails off, looks down at his hands for a couple of beats before glancing back up at Peter. “I think I promised?”

Peter’s grin is subtle when he steps closer to Deadpool. They stand at the lip of the rooftop, side by side, biceps only inches away from touching- the urge to move closer is omnipresent, but ultimately resisted by both parties.

“You did. Been doing a really good job at it, too.” He affirms, staring out towards the city. It’s midnight, maybe, and artificial light streams from between skyscrapers and complexes, glows gently onto their concealed faces. His voice is quiet, when speaks again.  “I’m really proud of you.”

Peter feels a yawn forming at the back of his throat, but he neglects the feeling, nudges Deadpool instead. The inches between them seem monumental- typical, expected, and so terribly packed to the brim with unspoken words, silenced truths.

“Don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.” Deadpool returns the gesture, his shoulder lingering just a moment longer than it needs to against Peter’s. “Never thought I could’ve, y’know, stopped livin’ like that.”

Just a quick glance over at the other tells Peter that Deadpool’s nervous- his hands jitter, throat bobs uncomfortably.

“Papa raised me’ta be like that, put me in the biz soon as I could flip the safety off ‘a my first pistol, didn’t choose that life on my own, don’t think I would’a otherwise.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Nah, no need to be sorry, sweets. That was all I knew, huh? And then those bastards had to fuck me over completely, jacked me up with the mutation and all that and like- hey, what the fuck else was I gonna do?”

It’s rhetorical, Peter knows, so he doesn’t let himself answer- he’s heard the stories before, time and time again, sometimes as a vague overview, sometimes with so much detail it makes his stomach wrench. The idea that Deadpool actually endured those months of torture is unfathomable, one of the army of reasons Peter had decided to give Deadpool a chance in the first place regardless of the warning signs.

Deadpool continues, his voice thick with something Peter can’t identify.

“Kept on keepin’ on like that, makin’ bank, travelling the world, seeing anything I wanted, doing anyone, anything I wanted. Lonely life, but- that was my life, so. Had my cake, ate it too. And then I met you, Spidey, and?” There’s a pause in his speech, pregnant and tense and drawn on much too long for comfort. “And then s’like everything changed, suddenly I wasn’t just alive, _unaliving_ people, I was savin’ innocents, stopping scummy asshats and- I wasn’t just _alive,_  I was- shit, honeybuns, I was _livin’,_ too.” Deadpool lifts his hand, and Peter’s only expecting him to scratch his head, or unsheath a katana, or _something normal,_  but instead he yanks the mask off in one fluid movement, and then Peter’s met with the most honest set of cerulean eyes he’s ever seen.

“Dead-”

“ _Wade._ ” The other man corrects, and it’s like a barrier between them dissolves, because Peter’s moving forwards before Deadpool - _Wade_ \- can even register his reaction.

Arms curl around Peter’s body like it’s instinctive- there’s no hesitation in Wade’s motion as he tugs the smaller man to his chest. Peter can hear Wade’s heart pounding, can feel the nearly-imperceptible tremors in the hands pressed to his back. “Changed my life, meetin’ you. Little fuckin’ angel, you are.”

Wade knows his words aren’t eloquent and his voice is low and emotional, but he’s got the sweetest man on earth held in his own awful hands and there’s nothing right now that’ll change that. There's nothing right now that could ever make him let go.

“Wade,” Peter repeats, gloved-fingers grasping onto the heavy fabric of the Deadpool costume. If he’d felt alive earlier today, he feels like he’s on fire now, so far beyond just simply _alive_ it’s like his feet aren’t touching the ground anymore, like he’s not just falling, waiting for gravity to take its toll, but he’s flying, really, _truly_ flying.

Here, even up on a rooftop in the outskirts of the city, they might as well be the last two souls on earth, so invested in each other that nothing else right now matters. This moment exists only for them.

Too soon, Peter leans back. Wade looks down at him, eyes brimming with conflicting emotions. Peter only wants to take a look, though- finally learn the face he’s been thinking about non-stop for nearly two years now.

Peter notices his sharp cheekbones first, gorgeous structures that shade the deep hollows of his cheeks, the delicate lines of his lips. The city’s faraway glow highlights Wade’s deep-set eyes, gives the gorgeous blue of his irises an iridescent quality that makes Peter’s breath stop short. His skin is scarred, some parts rust-splotched, some parts white with scar tissue, but-

As a whole, Wade is stunning, marred skin or not.

“ _This_ is what you’ve been hiding from me?” Peter remarks, a smile tugging at his lips. He’s about to make another comment about how ridiculous Wade had been all those times, spewing awful things about his appearance under the mask, but then he realizes that he’s been hiding just the same, just as long.

And-

And his decision is made, before he’s really aware that he’s made it.

Wade’s eyes are blown when Peter’s mask comes off, pupils wide and entirely disbelieving as they flick across Peter’s features, desperate and quick as though he’s not sure what he’s seeing is real.

Peter takes a step back, leaves a foot of space between them and holds his hand out. They’re looking at each other for the first time right now, real eyes meeting real eyes against a background of New York’s brilliant skyline.

“Nice to meet you, Wade.” Peter starts, his voice shaking. His lungs don’t seem to work, every appendage tingling in anticipation. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”

Wade’s face practically splits with the smile that blooms across his uneven cheeks, and then he’s bypassing Peter’s outstretched hand to pull their bodies together once more. The embrace is solid, certain- Wade’s palms flat and secure against Peter’s back, an anchor that Peter realizes he doesn’t ever want to give up. If years of chaos and stress meant finally ending up like this, nerves alight as he’s pressed against the man that’s ostensibly been his closest and most important friend for what feels like forever now, he wouldn’t change a single thing; ages of grief and suffering and awfulness have led to this moment, and Peter doesn’t think it’s possible to be any happier than he is right now. 

He’s kissing Wade without warning, then, tilting his head back just enough to brush his lips against Wade’s jaw, drag up towards his mouth. He’s met without resistance, the hands that rest on the curve of his spine tightening, knotting in the fabric of his suit, and he swears that if Wade weren’t holding him down, keeping him grounded, he's sure he’d be floating, helplessly adrift above the city.

They stay like this for an eternity. The moment ends eventually, as all moments do, but there’s no fear in the aftermath- they move on with their lives, but they move on together, hands intertwined, hearts bound.

This, being together, is something beyond living.

**Author's Note:**

> yo!
> 
> I'm gonna write something longer than a couple thousand words eventually but I can't get enough of writing these little one shots.. whoops? 
> 
> hope y'all enjoy, be sure to come say hi on Tumblr [@thespideyboy](https://thespideyboy.tumblr.com), and I'll catch you later!!
> 
> :)))


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